Like Father, Like Son
by Soter
Summary: Three of the greatest Aces of the world have one thing in common, the man who taugth them how to fly and fight: Cipher.
1. A Humble Beginning

War.

A simple word; only three letters and a single syllable.

Yet this word has caused more change than nearly all other words combined.

Except for perhaps one:

Love.

* * *

_-6 June, 1961_

He had been waiting an agonizing eleven and a half hours. He did not like waiting, not for a mission, not for an engagement, and especially not for this. He'd been waiting nine months for this day, and now was forced, by the person he waited to meet, to wait some more.

Sitting down, he looked at the stack of magazines on the table in the corner. He'd read them all already. For the first time in his life, he wished he had some paperwork to do. The cushion of the couch shifted while a calloused hand rested gently on his shoulder.

"I hate this."

The man sitting next to him smiled. "Well, I waited for fifteen hours for you. I guess it's no surprise that it'd happen to you." George laughed. It was not just a simple chuckle, but the hearty laugh that he saved for occasions like this. For a few moments, he wasn't the hard oil rig builder that his son often saw him as.

Simon smiled, finally. Like his father, he was a man of few words. Unlike George, Simon did not work in the oil industry. Even though he was guaranteed a job as the son of EOI's chief executive, Simon sought work elsewhere.

He found it in the Air Force. After two years of active duty, Simon had risen to command the 97th TFS, which was equipped with F-100s, a plane that was seen as adequate, but lacking in potential improvement.

His thoughts returning to the waiting room, Simon stood up and started pacing again.

"Shouldn't the doctor have come back out by now?"

"Not necessarily. Besides, if he came out too soon or too often, that might mean there is something wrong."

"I hadn't thought of that." Simon paused for a second, trying to collect his thoughts. "Do you think I'm ready?"

"No." The young man's shoulders slump visibly at the unexpected answer. "But then again, no one ever truly is. This is the most important thing you will ever do."

"I know."

George smiles. "Good. Turn around."

Confused, Simon does as he is told. To his relief, the doctor is there. And carrying something wrapped in a blanket.

"Captain," he hands him the something, "meet your son."

Simon looks down. Two tightly closed eyes, a squished nose and quivering lips are the first things he notices. The next is the grip his son's free hand has on Simon's pinky finger. For an eternal, silent moment, all is right in the world.

And Simon knows that this young life, his son, is his to protect; his to teach, his to love unconditionally. Finally, Captain Simon Barker smiles.

"Welcome to the world, William."


	2. On Eagle's Wings

_But they that wait upon the LORD shall renew their strength and mount up on wings like eagles. Isaiah 40:31_

_

* * *

_

_-17 May 1979_

_Luke AFB, St. Lô, Osea_

_

* * *

_

It was intoxicating. And it was not the smell of burnt JP-5 and heated metal, though on any other day that would be the culprit.

No, it was the simple knowledge that as soon as he set foot on that tarmac that he would be flying one of the world's most advanced fighters. Not only that, but he was joining one of the most elite fighter squadrons in the Air Force: the 156th Tactical Fighter Squadron. Officially, they were known as "Aquilla" after the fighter they currently fly. But unofficially, they are famous within the Air Force, and in fact a number of air forces across the world, as "Yellow Squadron."

And so, young Lieutenant William G. Barker strides across the searing asphalt towards the towering wonder of Osean aeronautic engineering that he has the pleasure and privilege to fly.

"So, kid, you ready?" Beside the fighter stands his instructor, Captain Dusan Walter. Walter has been a member of the squadron for two years, and is considered one of the best trainers in the Air Force. And before today, he was undisputedly the best fighter pilot.

Before Barker set foot on the tarmac.

The young pilot silently nods and begins his walk around. Barker, even with no combat time, is the greatest pilot in the Federal Erusian Air Force for one reason: he is the first graduate of the Modern Aerial Combat and Tactics School. Known by some as MACATS, the school was set up five years ago to train the next generation of Erusian aces. Barker is the first graduate in a class of seven. He is also the only graduate in the class. Two washed out, one has to stay on an extra year, and the rest were killed due to incompetence, or bad luck.

_I'm either extremely lucky, or I really am the best._ Barker rocks the forward AIM-7 Sparrow in its mount along the left intake. Satisfied that the fittings won't come apart at the wrong moment, he moves on.

Five minutes later, William makes it back to the cockpit, Captain Walter still standing there. "Everything check out?"

"Ready to fly, sir."

Walter pats him on the shoulder as he walks past the young pilot. William smiles then climbs the ladder on the splintered gray F-15. Dropping into the seat, he straps in, then runs his fingers over the various switches and dials. His hands naturally stop on the Hand On Throttle and Stick system. Through his flight gloves, Barker feels the various buttons and switches that can, in combat, control the entire plane. Lifting his helmet from his lap, William puts it on and plugs into the oxygen and intercom systems. Lowering the canopy, he punches in the numbers for the internal navigation system. One last step to go: starting the twin Pratt and Whitney F100-PW-110 turbofans.

The banshee wail reverberates through the seat as the needles show everything coming on line. In seconds McDonnell Douglas F-15A number 79-08723 is ready to head for its new home.

"723 ready to takeoff." William wipes the controls, testing them to make sure that they all work.

"Let's go home." Walter releases the brakes on his fighter, slowly crawling toward the runway. A few seconds later, William does likewise.

"Aquilla Flight, you are cleared to takeoff. Be advised, some Navy Tomcats are passing through."

"So?"

The control tower continues to explain that the Navy has been bouncing F-15 any chance they get. It seems that they think the F-14 is the ultimate jet fighter. So far, they've been right.

_So far._

Walter and Barker continue onto the runway. Far off in the distance are the Tomcats; hardly even specks above the horizon. "Sir, what are the rules here?"

"Rules? Barker, it's just like a training hop. We're not going to try to actually shoot them, just get a lock on."

"What I mean is, are there any limitations?"

Walter glances over from his spot slightly ahead of the eager young pilot. "Do you want any?"

Behind his mask, Barker smiles. "No, but they might need _me_ to be limited."

A chuckle resonates over the radio. "Don't let the fact that you're MACATS get to your head. Do as Lanoe Hawker would do." Walter begins his run down the asphalt strip.

'_Attack Everything!' Oh yeah, I can do that._ Half a fuselage length behind Walter, Barker screams his Eagle along the strip, performing a perfect sectioned takeoff. Soon, both of the pilots reach takeoff speed, but still just barely touch the runway. Four glinting outlines, the Tomcats, grow in the windscreen.

Suddenly, Barker yanks the stick back. The Eagle instantly stands on its tail, sending the fighter into a blistering supersonic Viking takeoff. Three of the four inbound Osean Navy jets try in vain to get a lock. At four thousand feet Barker throttles back, pulling the big fighter on her back. The Tomcats pass beneath him. Slamming the throttle quadrant back into afterburner, Barker noses down, and chases two of the light grey and white jets. The other two are trying to convert on Jordan.

One Tomcat snap rolls, getting behind Barker. Ignoring him, William sets after the other. Calling to his wingman, the Tomcat jinks in all directions, throwing the occasional yo-yo in an attempt to throw off the young Erusian. But to no avail.

Barker gets within five hundred feet, and switches his weapons to the twenty millimeter cannon in the starboard fairing. Had this been a real dogfight, no less than fifty rounds of high explosive ammo would have spat out of the Vulcan at that instant.

In his headset, the Radar Warning Receiver twitters a warning. Barker ignores it, twitching the nose of his fighter to stay in line with the Tomcat in front of him. According to standard dogfight rules, all he needs to do is keep his opponent in his gunsight for ten seconds to score a kill.

"Guns on Tomcat!" First 'kill' of the day.

Behind him, the second Tomcat gains, vainly trying to keep his fighters nose pointed at the Eagle.

Without any waring, Barker slams his fighter into an intentional departure. Tumbling tail-over-nose, the young pilot watches the patchwork of green and tan of Osea's heartland give way to sky, only to return again much larger in the front canopy.

In an attempt to keep behind the mad Erusian, the Tomcat pilot throttles back and hits the airbrakes. Bringing his nose up, he fights gravity, trying to get his speed down and keep the Eagle ahead. But this is a maneuver within the plane of the fight. Barker's is not.

In less than five seconds, Barker's Eagle is in front, behind, above, below, and left of the Tomcat. When Barker finally snaps out of his maneuver, he is just above the twin stabilizers.

Hitting the speed brakes, Barker falls behind the large naval interceptor. In less than twenty seconds he has a lock, and a second simulated kill.

Before he can turn to find Walter and the Tomcats following him, the tower declares the fight over. Three of the Toms were 'shot down' while the last bugged out. Walter and Barker form up, turning to head east.

The flight of four Tomcats form up to their left. The leader looks over at the two and salutes. Both Erusain pilots return it.

"You've got a great pilot there San."

Silent shock washes over Barker. He had never heard anyone call the captain 'San' while on duty. Except for his wife.

"Heck yeah, Joe. Bet you could've used him in Laos."

A chuckle reverberates across the radio. "He would have made a killer Gator pilot. Those Frescos would have never stood a chance with that kid in the 'pit."

Hearing this praise, Barker smiles. "Thanks you, sir. I would have liked to have had the chance to prove myself."

"Perhaps you will someday. By the way, kiddo, where'd you learned that maneuver?"

Barker pauses. "To be truthful, sir, I didn't learn it. While in training I needed a way for my little L-29 to defeat one of the new aggressor Fishbeds. I didn't have speed for me, nor endurance, so I went extreme."

"Like a good fighter pilot should." The Osean pilot brings his Tomcat closer to the young pilot's fighter. Just beneath the canopy frame is the monogram: Joseph "Hoser" Satrapa. "You're bound to do great things kid. I just hope that I'm never at the receiving of that trigger finger."

Barker smiles and salutes, knowing exactly what to say to one of the world's greatest pilots. "Thanks Hose."

* * *

L.S. (Lectori Salutem - Latin for "Greetings to the reader"): Sorry it has been so long since I posted. I'm having issues with this and my other Ace Combat stories. I will try to have a new chapter, or a re-write, within the next two weeks. -Soter

**Joseph "Hoser" Satrapa**: Prolific fighter pilot who flew F-8 Crusaders, RA-5 Vigilantes, and F-14 Tomcats. Spends his time flying S-2 Firebombers. Barker's cartwheeling maneuver is based on Satrapa's "Vorboschka" maneuver - pull up followed by stick forward and to a corner paired with opposite rudder.

**Gator**: Loving nickname for the "always out for blood" Vought F-8 Crusader (or Sader).


End file.
